Homeostasis
by Katt9966
Summary: Old habits die hard. An episode tag for Partners.


Title: - Homeostasis

Author: - Katt

E-mail: - - FRM

Feedback: - Like it or loathe it let me know

Archive: - Archived at the Shield Fanfiction Archive

Warnings: - A dark fic that deals with sensitive subject matter

Disclaimer: - I don't own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.

Author's Notes: - This is an episode-tag for "Partners".

Homeostasis

It was the first couple of minutes that were the worst. The water was so cold that it hurt, his toes curling in reflex as he'd lower his feet in as if they were trying to escape the frigid liquid. Getting in quickly or slowly lowering yourself down to sit in the waist high water, he wasn't sure which was easiest, but he preferred the slow method. Gradually feeling the icy water rising up over his body making his breath freeze in his throat and then restart with a gulp in shaky hiccups gasping in oxygen as quickly as possible. The little involuntary groan that he never quite managed to suppress every time he finally sat down fully in the bath.

Then the next stage, slowly lying back in the water. Feeling it creeping up your back, making you shudder and gasp, every instinct in your body urging you to get out, to get warm again. The sensation like prickles across your scalp as your head goes under. Feeling as if your blood is freezing in your veins as you lie there and feel your body begins to adjust. The pain starts to leave your limbs and a steady, creeping numbness begins to take its place.

However, the lack of feeling, the lack of sensation, the lack of pain, isn't what this is all about so he'd heave himself up from his frozen cocoon until he was sitting up again. Shivering in the cool air. The hairs on his arms standing up, a homeostatic response trying to capture a layer of warm air between his body and the outside. Looking down at his arms and seeing the flesh so pale it almost becomes translucent as his blood is directed into the centre of his body, keeping his internal organs warm, staving off hypothermia for as long as possible. Sometimes he stays in the water long enough to see the tips of his fingers turning blue, just – because…

His finger tips aren't blue yet, but he guesses he hasn't been in here long enough. Give himself another half an hour and he's sure they'll have that pale grey-blue tinge to them.

His mind wanders for a moment and he thinks about all those freezing cold baths he took when he was a kid. His body shudders, and it has nothing to do with the cold. He scrubs a little harder at his arm with the pan scourer, little semi-circular motions that make sure no patch of skin is missed, no piece of filth is left, all the badness scoured away.

It's too late though, he opened the door and peeked inside and now the howling whirlwind he keeps secured behind it finds a way of sending pieces of memory whizzing through his mind.

The dark nights filled with fear and pain when he'd lie still and sobbing while his father told him how it was all his fault and what a bad boy he was, how much he needed to be punished. Worse still though were the nights that his father's touch would make him gasp and arch up, craving more. The nights when his father would be gentle and his confused adolescent body would betray him and he'd orgasm while his mind screamed "No". Then his father would laugh at his tears of shame and tell him that it just proved how evil and perverted he was – and he'd believe him and wish that he could die.

After his father had finished with him he wasn't allowed to get up and wash. _"I've marked you as mine…I own you boy, don't you ever forget it. You lie in that filth all night and remember that it's you who make me do this…that it's you who's bad."_

He couldn't do it though. He couldn't lie there and feel the warm, sticky liquid that leaked out of him going cold and dry on his thighs. He couldn't lie there and smell the musky scent of sex that would permeate his room. He couldn't lie there and feel as if his father's cum was burning into his flesh, branding him, marking him as corrupt forever.

So he'd lie awake and wait, watching the clock tick by one hour, sometimes two – just to be safe. Then he'd get up and sneak into the bathroom. The house was old and the water pipes would rattle and knock sometimes. Well the hot water pipes would, but the cold water pipes were silent. So he would fill the bath with cold water and gingerly climb in trying to keep as quiet as possible so he didn't disturb his parents. Then he'd scrub himself clean, trying to scrub away the badness.

He dragged his mind away from those memories, shoving them back into their locked room, slamming the door on them. Looking down at the water he wondered how much of the pink that stained it came from the abrasions on his flesh caused by the scourer he used to dig out the filth and the badness inside him, and how much came from his sore ass.

He was still bad sometimes. Like today with Kayla, letting her die in the trunk of that car. His arrogance, his stupidity, his weakness killing her. He'd needed to be punished. He had someone who would do that for him. Someone he'd met years before who was always at the end of the phone. Someone who never asked questions, just took his money and gave him what he wanted.

Afterwards he'd come home and complete the ritual with the cold bath and the slow methodical scrubbing of his flesh. However, it always seemed as though no matter how hard he was punished, or how cold the water was, or how thoroughly he washed himself, nothing could touch that inner core of badness that lay buried inside him.

Looking down at his fingertips turning blue he wondered if maybe he could cut it out instead – if he found a sharp enough blade?


End file.
